come on sticky love [what happened here?]
She was running out of ideas.
And normally it wouldn't bother her because she almost always had someone there now, someone ready and waiting and looking at the world with different, not-so-stupid eyes. Someone to take the blame when things went to hell. Someone to take the fall when the engine sputtered out and died. But how was she supposed to broach the topic with anyone when she could hardly take herself seriously anymore? She couldn't even walk down the pathway without nearly keeling over in cackling laughs as she tried juggling all her burdens.
She wasn't supposed to have started it in the first place, but like every other mountain she was faced with climbing, she forged onward, hacking and slicing and gutting without abandon. Soon enough her arm was screaming with the exertion and the carnage was everywhere – puddles of sludgy ooze under her feet, green, browning corpses and striped shells littering her surroundings. She'd had no choice but to keep going, though she was still wanting for clues as to what to do next because there was still more to be done and she'd already been at this for hours.
Yes, she was a raging lunatic. And she knew it, would exclaim it proudly to anyone who dared to ask, felt it beating in her bones with every kick of her heart, and basked in the liberating feeling for exactly six seconds before regretting it all the down to said bones.
Because she was such a complete doofus, she found herself grabbing her sharpest knife and plunging it into the pink, watery flesh of the 34-pound (well, it was probably only 17 pounds now that it was nearing 3 p.m. and she'd wrestled it up the stairs around 9 this morning) watermelon she'd unloaded from Granny at the old woman's beseeching behest.
Stupid idea, borderline insane. And now she was paying for it. A hint of advice for if you ever find yourself in such a situation: unless you own at least three containers each the size of a small kiddie pool, do not under any circumstances believe that 30-odd pounds of fruit can be contained calmly within your kitchen – it just don't work.
Of course, she could only give this advice after discovering that the goddamn fridge shelf would collapse under the weight of the first bowl she filled and attempted to shove in there, but hey, she was the Savior after all. She could take a hit for the team because of the things you do for the good of the people and she was doing a public service and blah, blah, blah.
Either way and for all the good it did her, her kitchen still resembled a warzone.
Cabinets were wrenched open and ransacked in her mad raving; bowls and colanders and knives deemed insufficient for soothing the monster rattled around from their new places on the ground from where she tossed them aside.
Orange-pink juice dripped like blood to the floor from where it gushed from the newest opening she'd made in the melon's flank, spilling over her fingers and cutting board before committing suicide on the cold wood.
The only bright spot she figured would come out the end of this was that she'd be as skilled as Dexter likely was at chopping up dead bodies and stuffing them into garbage bags.
Garbage bags… That was it! Maybe she could even fit the entire thing into one!
Brilliant as ever, Swan. You're a genius.
And so the hunt began.
She was elbow-deep in buckets, sponges, and empty dishwashing detergent bottles under the sink – not a single fucking garbage bag to be found, and she couldn't understand how that was even possible – when she heard the front door click open, followed by slow footfalls. "Swan?"
It was Killian.
"In the kitchen!" she called, hastening to disentangle herself from her position on the ground to meet him; preventing him from slipping in a puddle of watermelon guts would be an added bonus. After a ferocious clattering of plastic, she regained her footing in time to watch Killian peruse the room with a surprised little look forcing his eyebrows skyward. As bad as the kitchen was, she was sure she looked a sight as well, what with her hair tied messily atop her head, shirt half-hanging off one shoulder, jeans with red, sticky handprints splotched onto them.
"Enjoying yourself, love?" he asked once his eyes fell on her.
A flush rose up in her cheeks, and she suddenly felt like an errant child who'd gotten carried away as she stared at him, gauging his mood. "You're not mad, are you?"
"Mad? No, of course not, lass. Just... is that a watermelon?"
"Uh, yeah," she replied. "Don't ask me for details, but somehow Granny got stuck with it, and I just happened to be the one she pawned it off on."
"I see." A strange expression, one she'd never seen on him before, had befallen his face, and she studied him, trying to place it as he glanced once more over the area. Brows upturned but not as high as when he was annoyed, eyes crinkling a tad in the corners, bottom lip held captive under his teeth…
The bastard was laughing at her.
"Killian! This is not funny – why are you laughing?" He seemed to be unable to contain himself for a second longer, and began chortling in hilarious abandon, his eyes bright and dimples flashing. "I'm sorry, love, but have you seen this place? I've known better-looking wreckage after a battle on the high seas," he got out before he was overcome by another fit of laughter.
"Ha ha ha," she intoned, stone-faced. "I know. I'm hilarious. Now go away."
She also couldn't help but be a tiny bit hurt that he was laughing at her and not with her this time, since that didn't happen too often.
"Now, now, Swan. Don't be like that," he said, remorseful now that his laughter had dissipated, and he stepped closer to her from his original seemingly safe distance from the "wreckage" that was their kitchen. His hand came up to brush a sticky clump of hair out of her face, and she sighed, turning away from him to examine the damage.
It wasn't that bad.
Okay, well, maybe it was pretty bad, but seriously? How had she managed to get watermelon juice splattered on the microwave oven? The physics gods had some serious explaining to do.
A sweet, earthy scent clung to the air, and she looked back at Killian to find him watching her, an adoring expression softening his face. "Anything I can do to help?" he asked, hand resting lightly on her waist.
"Are you sure you wanna ask that?" He swallowed nervously and averted his eyes, and her lips quirked.
"Aye, well… no. But I would be in remiss if I didn't offer to at least call your mother. Perhaps she could help you out of this bind."
"My hero," she quipped, but it was tired-sounding, since calling her mother seemed akin to hanging a white flag over the eve of battle. Emma Swan was many things, but rarely one to admit defeat, even if the only enemy was the bulging hunk of fruit lifelessly lying on the counter. Maybe someday she'd learn that there were battles even she grew weary of fighting, as much as it may have irked her.
Thus, the watermelon had won.
She'd predicted that she would fall asleep only to dream about cutting more watermelon – or at least suffer a nightmare about being stuck inside one, unable to slash an opening big enough for her body to fit through – but she found herself being wrenched from a dreamless, exhausted sleep instead by a garbled, curt shout that ripped through the still nighttime air.
Killian.
Both of their nightmares about their experiences in the Underworld had eased with time, and had all but disappeared save for the random one or two that cropped up every few weeks. However, tonight was making itself out to be one of the rough ones.
She rolled over to find him already sitting up, having jolted himself awake, head in his hand, blunted arm wrapped over his stomach. "Hey, you okay?" she murmured, crawling to the space beside him.
"Sorry, Emma. Didn't mean to wake you." His voice was gravelly with either sleep or emotion – she never really knew when it came to his nightmares – but with the way he was trembling slightly, she guessed it was the latter.
But maybe she had a cure – or at least a distraction, up her sleeve.
She shushed him, pressing a kiss against his cheek, and hopped off the bed to race to the kitchen. In her haste and the darkness, she tumbled more than stepped down the stairs and narrowly avoided smashing her toe against the sofa leg, but made it to the fridge unscathed anyway.
A tray of paper cups lined one of the shelves, and she grinned despite learning earlier that her mother was the true genius of the family. She grabbed a pair of them before yanking open a drawer and plucking out a spoon, and then she was off again, jogging up the stairs and back to their bedroom.
Killian was slumped and humming on the floor against the bed, one knee up, the other leg spread in front of him, blue eyes haunted. Her heart gave a twist as she approached, sitting close enough to him so that her feet could tuck up under his thigh.
She held a cup and spoon out to him, and he took her offering, confusion taking place of the glassy emptiness in his eyes. "Jell-O shots," she said, fighting to keep the smirk off her face and the worry for him from rising too far up her throat. His gaze swept to her, lips twitching. "I may or may not have spiked them with rum while my mom wasn't looking."
"A woman after me own heart," he muttered with a semblance of a smile at her, and scooped a wedge onto his spoon before popping it in his mouth.
For a long while he was quiet, gradually beginning to unwind as her fingers wove through his hair, ran down his arm, tapped gently at the scruff of his jaw. She gave him the second cup when he'd finished the first – the watermelon juice and gelatin probably diluted most of the rum's alcohol content anyway – but she hated to disappoint.
Killian didn't seem to mind, though, easily content under her loving touches and chilled treats. Once the second serving was gone, she set the cups and spoon off to the side and straddled him, brushing her lips over his, tasting the sweetness of the melon and rum on his breath.
"I must say, love, I'm quite partial to this realm and its many charms – strange goo included," he said, tugging her further into him so that his heartbeat pounded underneath her palm.
"So it's the realm you like, huh?" She pouted in jest, muttering the words against his lips. "I see how it is." Her hands roamed along the edge of his shirt for only a second before inching their way up until they found the bare skin of his hips.
She treasured the smile – all teeth and not a trace of fear – that gleamed at her in the darkness, the way his muscles tensed under her hands, the heat pooling low in her belly. "Well, there is this beautiful –"
"Uh-uh," she scolded, halting the statement midstride with a quick peck. "I'll show you just how many charms this world has to offer."
Then his shirt was off, and her lips claimed his once more.
In the quiet days between villainous uprisings, Storybrooke transformed into something of a party central, ironic though it may have been. During all hours of the day some sort of shindig was taking place, and whether it be a traditional get-together at Granny's or a picnic in the park near the portal to Underbrooke, it always signaled a grand time was to be had.
She never imagined to count her own home as a designated site to have one of these parties, but there she was, and luckily for the residents of Storybrooke, she had a crap-ton of watermelon goodies to serve them.
All she knew was how glad she was that Killian had called her mother when he did. Snow had rushed right over to relieve Emma of her watermelon-wreaked havoc – brimming with ways she could be rid of the entire mess as she helped tidy up, reassuring her that they would find a way to smash everything in the fridge overnight once they'd stuck the Jell-O shots on the rickety and replaced top shelf.
The following morning, they started cooking. Watermelon cakes and popsicles and smoothies, agua frescas and fruit kebabs and homemade Jolly Ranchers (Killian was nearly beside himself with glee when she told him what they were called, insisting they were his favorites despite the Jell-O and rum – but she knew the truth), ice cream and glaze and jam. Henry, greatly amused by his mother's antics when he'd arrived home to a scene much like the one Killian had, jokingly asked if they were going to start adding watermelon syrup to their hot chocolates.
But they didn't just make desserts either: her mother had recipes to carve garnish out of thinly sliced pieces to accent burgers and steaks and blend melon along with an assortment of spices to make salad dressing.
But of course, her favorite recipes called for some sort of alcohol to be added with crumbly ice – margaritas and daiquiris and coolers – knowing that Killian would enjoy tasting each one and be able to experience the delectable miracle that was a crisp watermelon-flavored – shaken and never stirred – martini.
By the end of the day her countertops were buffet tables, smattered and overflowing with delicious treats.
It scarcely must be told that a feast would be in order, and Emma even went so far as to spam mass-text messages to invite people over to pick up a plate, and soon the room was stocked with those eager to fill their empty bellies.
She watched from the heart of it all, pleased that struggles could bring such extravagance. Granny, Ruby, and Leroy guffawed loudly in one corner, plates in hand. Snow watched over Neal and Henry eating fluffy pink cake with green frosting on the patio. Regina, Zelena, and baby Robin hovered off in their own space on the sofa, separated from most everyone else, chatting animatedly. Even locals she hadn't seen in ages were there, mingling with her family members.
Her father and Killian were laughing heartily, hands and hook waving dramatically near the side table where all the beverages were being served.
Go figure. From the looks of it both men were obviously tipsy, and it was just past 6:30. They'd be comatose by nightfall.
God have mercy on them all.
She'd been right. Because of course. Put David and Killian in the same room together with a table of spiked drinks and soon enough there'd be a problem.
Granted, a dashingly handsome problem, but it simply wasn't suitable for the neighbors and children to be privy to discussions of brothels and intimacy and whatever else the two drunk idiots could come up with.
Fortunately, the party was finally winding down, so only the stragglers witnessed the royal family's embarrassment as Snow and Emma tried to get a handle on prince and pirate alike. Killian was the milder of the two, mostly willing to listen to the voice of reason when Emma told him he should try some of the food before it was completely gone.
Her father, on the other hand, was boisterous and incorrigible, often taking to yelling at the top of his lungs and throwing a tantrum when he was told it was time to get in the car and head for home.
Any remaining guests usually took their leave by that point.
But finally, after several minutes of insistent requests and desperate bribes from Snow, Charming acquiesced and staggered wildly down the steps, practically held upright by his wife.
Emma laughed from the doorway as she shouted her farewells.
When she shut the door and turned to the kitchen – platters scattered over every surface, but thankfully there was no more watermelon in sight – she found Killian slouched against the counter, eyes glossy with liquor, fingers fiddling with the bun of his half-eaten burger.
She ambled over to him, hugging him to her from behind. "Hi," she said into his shoulder. He was warm, smelling of tangy spices and mint, and her arms wound around his waist when she felt him sway.
"'Lo, my Swan." His words were slightly slurred from drink, his accent thick. "Quite the soiree you made from that mess I walked into yesterday."
She snorted. "I don't think all that trouble was worth this. There was juice soaked into the floorboards, Killian. I had to use the Rainbow on the wood just to get it out."
"As troublesome as it was for you, I rather enjoyed partaking in such a festivity. And the libations were simply d'lightful, but…" His voice fell away, and he turned in her arms, his head sweeping down to catch her lips sloppily with his.
"But what?" she asked once he pulled away, his teeth sunk into the bottom lip of his smile.
"But you are the one I always find the most joy in."
She scoffed, feeling her cheeks warm. "Even drunk you're still a smooth talker."
He made a face – some delicious twist of a pout. "I'm not yet close to being three sheets to the wind, Swan," he argued. The quiver in his movements and half-lidded eyes belied his statement, and she grinned, choosing to divert his attention to something she knew he would fall for – buzzed or not. "I love you."
"Me, too," he sighed softly, skimming his nose along hers. His eyes slipped shut, and she gripped him a little bit tighter. "How about we set sail, tiger?"
"I can tell when you're quoting something," he accused sleepily.
She laughed outright at that. "I'll tell you the story tomorrow. When I know you're sober enough to remember it."
He pouted again, but let her lead him up the stairs, his hand never leaving hers.
Killian woke the next morning, the sunlight piercing his eyelids and a cloying taste under his tongue to discover his Swan was already up and watching him with thinly veiled amusement. "Swan," he groaned, reaching for her, wincing when she laughed. "I think it's best if we go without watermelon for a while."
Author's Note: I was so conflicted writing this… Emma's POV or Killian's? Should Emma be a good little housekeeper and chef or only able to burn water? I'd originally planned for Emma to come home to find Killian and Henry – because it just feels like Killian would be the type of guy to do this kind of thing, and there's probably an endless mine to be had of him calling it loot, booty, or treasure.
Oh, well. At least I squeezed some drunk pirate in there as promised, right?
And before you scream at me, I am aware that the lyrics are 'come on skinny love' and yes, I am aware I screwed it all up. I've been known to do that every so often. :)
Anyhoo – reviews and messages make me happy, and I like to be happy. Go do your thing.